I painted my nails black today. Actually, I only painted half of them, which proves my enthusiasm towards wearing cosmetics. Right now they are wet and the sort of glisten in a way that makes you want to touch them and feel how smooth they are, except that they aren't smooth, they are sort of sticky and once they come into contact with your fingers, the varnish is impossible to remove. But for the purpose, I think that one hand of black nails is suitable.

I am mourning the death of my muse. He seems to have been extinguished quite recently, by events unknown. Someday I intend to give him a proper funeral, but for now half of my nails are black and that is about as much symbolism as I can afford.

It is a most peculiar feeling, to miss an entity that never truly took physical form. It's not as painful, some would say, but I find it to be the opposite. When one loses a muse, it is quite a grievious matter indeed.

Now, I'm not the type of sentimental person who would draw a tissue and botch their face into a red speckled mess by the leaking of futile tears, but I do know that he is gone, and it saddens me. I miss him in a way that can't be portrayed easily through words, so I'm not going to try all that hard to explain it. I will say a few things on his behalf, though. I miss the way he would sneak up behind me and whisper cynical lunicies into my ears. He never talked in phrases of an signifigance, which is why he was most properly named Delirium, but I loved to hear his insane ramblings nonetheless.

"You need to turn down the volume on your eyes," he would occasionally say. What this means I haven't even a clue, which is why it is a shining example of what it meant to be with him. Now, say this bit to yourself aloud and listen as the words flow over you: "A thousand days past lent, love, so eat the chocolate you crave so dearly. Why! The beast has feathers after all. Perhaps if you tickle it, it will chirp. Rise above, Oh Acheliah!"

Senseless, I know, and more stupid than it is amusing. It's sort of like listening to someone speak in a foreign language. There is meaning there, but it can't be detected through the actual phonetics. I would listen to Delirium babble, his speech like a brook that rippled over my consciousness. His tone was musical, like he was singing a song of ages past that my mortal mind was too small to comprehend. But eventually some importance would seep into my head, not through the words but through the etheral power behind them. That is where the inspiration came from.

Oh, how desolate it is to have lost him! My incentive for writing has fallen to a near nothingness, and I grovel at the base of my computer with a blank screen and a vacant mind. He had a counterpart, this Delirium of which I speak, who is known as Incredulity and is at the roots of my reasoning. Why is it that while Delirium has perished, Incredulity remains? Try writing with logic alone and I can assure you that you won't get very far. However, Incredulity is not the purpose of my discussion. Were he to die, he would recieve an essay as well, but this is not the case.

It is in this sad scenario that a small side topic can pull me so far away from the point that I am trying to make. It is with even further dismay that I tell you that this piece has no point, for my muse has died. I suppose its purpose is to muse on the death of my muse. Oh how Deliriumish that was! Perhaps part of him has stayed with me, though on the whole I feel that he has truly kicked the can, (which is an incredibly cliche phrase that I wouldn't use unless it was an absolutely dire situation, i.e.: this moment.)

Delirium had many epithets, as he was many things. He was a comforter, a lover (not to me of course), a friend, a pervert, and a philosopher, to name a few. He had a passion for the strange and took a guilty pleasure in watching Velvet Goldmine at one in the morning. He had planned on dressing up as a pair of dice for Halloween, because that was the only tangible thing that he felt he could relate to, but clearly that was a pipe dream seeing that he is meeting his maker, (oh I must stop with this!).

In all honesty, I must say that I am surprising myself a bit. I just had this moment where I was staring blankly off at the Harry Potter calender on my wall, and I thought, why, Harry quite resembles a gorrilla. I then proceded to go on in a rather insane manner inside my head that yes, he looks like a gorrilla, but don't we all in some manner? Obviously not all of our eyebrows stretch in one continuous span across our foreheads, but on the whole I am feeling rather primate-ish today.

And all of a sudden it hit me, like a rock that had fallen out of the sky and manuevered its way onto my head, that I was going on in the exact same manner that Delirium had when he had been "alive". To experiment with this new found realization, I continued on about primates and Hermione and such and such until BOOM! The inspiration was once again flowing through my veins, scorching my mind. My fingers convulsed at the key board. Delirium hadn't left me, but more or less made himself unavailable. Yes! I am kissed by my muse yet again.